tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55047160001892443182024-03-13T04:12:03.936-07:00Poesia Da ImagemLeohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-81840450538588958092010-03-29T08:23:00.000-07:002010-03-29T08:49:34.577-07:00Luzes da Cidade<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2i4LOetufxin2fSQ4_j_QDR9QHKztNEST87cObYN4AP7ipDfQOSNPHAJxT8E2cuiNmrzfQyWbm3oPuuE3n8tY2hHfF2OIB_U1OvLXjOXrW-4VPgk8HXhrFLPMNguX0Aew_TNCcCs-f3c/s1600/IMG_3004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454078459394927666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2i4LOetufxin2fSQ4_j_QDR9QHKztNEST87cObYN4AP7ipDfQOSNPHAJxT8E2cuiNmrzfQyWbm3oPuuE3n8tY2hHfF2OIB_U1OvLXjOXrW-4VPgk8HXhrFLPMNguX0Aew_TNCcCs-f3c/s320/IMG_3004.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdTpAlyidjuPzza1XgE5GWaHCqnFWv__1QzcTcWrt4l6w06cmkExVlImo-iGeviUz0O6dn85SMPHL-gXcVhPr0LJvcJo3_VbQ1hcBosODySWIDIL4f82xjaiQFJZl3Jg10JW0KTpHK1o/s1600/IMG_2486.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454078453230204194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdTpAlyidjuPzza1XgE5GWaHCqnFWv__1QzcTcWrt4l6w06cmkExVlImo-iGeviUz0O6dn85SMPHL-gXcVhPr0LJvcJo3_VbQ1hcBosODySWIDIL4f82xjaiQFJZl3Jg10JW0KTpHK1o/s320/IMG_2486.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Carrego o corpo colorido</em></div><div align="center"><em>Pela multidão</em></div><div align="center"><em>A intolerância esta nua</em></div><div align="center"><em>O dia passou dolorido</em></div><div align="center"><em>Notícias e pregações fanáticas</em></div><div align="center"><em>Apenas os lúcidos serão julgados</em></div><div align="center"><em>Na mira do revólver cromado</em></div><div align="center"><em>ou tão estressado</em></div><div align="center"><em>Ando apressado feito mosca</em></div><div align="center"><em>Sonhos morrem na calçada</em></div><div align="center"><em>Vítima da sociedade zumbi</em></div><div align="center"><em>Carrego um espelho no sorriso</em></div><div align="center"><em>Nada acalma, a pressão sobe</em></div><div align="center"><em>Áutomourbano, espantalho na metrópole</em></div><div align="center"><em>Povo precisa de educação</em></div><div align="center"><em>Na escuridão aguda do coração</em></div><div align="center"><em>O vazio cerca o sentimentos</em></div><div align="center"><em>Côncava obscuridade</em></div><div align="center"><em>As avenidas do centro</em></div><div align="center"><em>Retas e ratos...</em></div><div><br /></div><div></div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-46301005932907426062010-03-05T16:09:00.000-08:002010-03-05T16:20:22.926-08:00Quem Criou Quem?<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkf7SCpoQ-GWRmiyeJvJwwi1E5EpFNqL1j5JNpWCOZeUPtIgQ1HBDyRsbTlxso80AF7YEwbXQBbFhjE0roxnz0Ucy6VNGG6EVYS44CAJz1gadsbzMF1ro0lw-YrCQYQ8JjgQicreJLmY/s1600-h/OgAAAKE_Omhhxv0YLxTkjbstKnuP53JfdzvgkO5NH7W7xFEQVKSyXRRZEgLZ8yrV8jB98dVp4KECaY1uA-aYejJzR4UAm1T1UIST4g4wb7OIdFtpiG5O_0Der1gT.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkf7SCpoQ-GWRmiyeJvJwwi1E5EpFNqL1j5JNpWCOZeUPtIgQ1HBDyRsbTlxso80AF7YEwbXQBbFhjE0roxnz0Ucy6VNGG6EVYS44CAJz1gadsbzMF1ro0lw-YrCQYQ8JjgQicreJLmY/s320/OgAAAKE_Omhhxv0YLxTkjbstKnuP53JfdzvgkO5NH7W7xFEQVKSyXRRZEgLZ8yrV8jB98dVp4KECaY1uA-aYejJzR4UAm1T1UIST4g4wb7OIdFtpiG5O_0Der1gT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445306505551042866" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Como? É o homem apenas um erro de Deus?<br />Ou é Deus unicamente um erro do homem?"<br />Quem "criou" quem?<br />Ou seria como se "criou"?<br />(Friedrich Nietzsche)<br /></span></div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-27160645200513218452010-03-04T09:22:00.000-08:002010-03-05T16:03:16.241-08:00Seu Nome Seu Nome Era...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBlBv-wM_-LXL_o9KZXkT1IFXHX4e6xj4ZMJtSPI5MGtSrIyV_gnUsBzQJW06ULwzZFF9oTTtzFY6AJJs8FdEGFKXvZtiOJ9ULqk-w-7-5QcWTYEBV_k0aQzh6o1jvHYHcvtrsXKvtWA/s1600-h/OgAAAN3ddxKrRgjR36XaG1gf92wG17XDjyJomu13r7hKE7mKpH1UiuVME1fcmfnK4vnttDiFjq9KQUnubXoSuTAtGoYAm1T1UD2MqAc2Qzy8EBgqGAyRcYXO0RdR.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444830416543261762" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 226px; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBlBv-wM_-LXL_o9KZXkT1IFXHX4e6xj4ZMJtSPI5MGtSrIyV_gnUsBzQJW06ULwzZFF9oTTtzFY6AJJs8FdEGFKXvZtiOJ9ULqk-w-7-5QcWTYEBV_k0aQzh6o1jvHYHcvtrsXKvtWA/s320/OgAAAN3ddxKrRgjR36XaG1gf92wG17XDjyJomu13r7hKE7mKpH1UiuVME1fcmfnK4vnttDiFjq9KQUnubXoSuTAtGoYAm1T1UD2MqAc2Qzy8EBgqGAyRcYXO0RdR.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><em>Bela Bela mais que Bela</em></div><div align="center"><em>Mais como era o nome dela?</em></div><div align="center"><em>Não era Helena nem Vera</em></div><div align="center"><em>nem Nara nem Gabriela</em></div><div align="center"><em>nem Tereza nem Maria</em></div><div align="center"><em>Seu nome seu nome era...</em></div><div align="center"><em>Perdeu-se na confusão de tanta noite e tanto dia</em></div><div align="center"><em>Perdeu-se na profusão das coisas acontecidas...</em></div><div align="center"><em>Mudou de cara e cabelos mudou de olhos e risos mudou de casa</em></div><div align="center"><em>e de tempo:mas esta comigo </em><em>está </em></div><div align="center"><em>perdido comigo</em></div><div align="center"><em>teu nome</em></div><div align="center"><em>em alguma gaveta</em></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><div align="center"><em>(Ferreira Gullar)</em></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-38812178480358590982010-03-03T12:43:00.000-08:002010-03-03T13:10:56.641-08:00Nada Dessas Mãos Pode Fugir<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyH-aczRzZnRTV7Q2p9kjR0AV1182lSbJVrr0wADwlOjnvDCCCyxKW-2TVuDitLJCMg57HJS0eiG3N6wycI6y_rFCFR_RAYq9OPIfJE9XM5xtHBwE_1gDCsqhRVK0_X2pjU0jhowUvrbQ/s1600-h/_MG_6386.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444511570342687170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyH-aczRzZnRTV7Q2p9kjR0AV1182lSbJVrr0wADwlOjnvDCCCyxKW-2TVuDitLJCMg57HJS0eiG3N6wycI6y_rFCFR_RAYq9OPIfJE9XM5xtHBwE_1gDCsqhRVK0_X2pjU0jhowUvrbQ/s320/_MG_6386.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div align="center"><em>Entrelaça-se entre meus dedos</em></div><div align="center"><em>Assim ficamos...juntos.</em></div><div align="center"><em>E acordamos nesse jogo de mãos</em></div><div align="center"><em>Perfumadas, suadas, coladas...</em><br /></div><div align="center"></div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-76469710548980824142010-03-01T18:11:00.000-08:002010-03-01T18:23:04.444-08:00Essa Menina...<div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNxlU-AM8UeCHwY736qpiBm0rchRxQm1_AmzzAR_uIIc7hYZR6UUMetJ4LAANhAK0NVNxxrbCHu_NmuOJ0PaGV5t_2cpegPmPMtzRiwRbaIW0zftkXTY7kd0zCbFTLPCAszvjdvZuoF8M/s1600-h/OgAAAIWA8SOraecvxhEqE86RMNUXS1eAKKcZR-X0R4R9rtTD_dMCwuy1HOtTU0Bg5X3qjoJYH8r2ppocayOeDW9iOAEAm1T1UNNvMVOcyrcQqEfssQjlwsmaaK9K.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443853577432176674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNxlU-AM8UeCHwY736qpiBm0rchRxQm1_AmzzAR_uIIc7hYZR6UUMetJ4LAANhAK0NVNxxrbCHu_NmuOJ0PaGV5t_2cpegPmPMtzRiwRbaIW0zftkXTY7kd0zCbFTLPCAszvjdvZuoF8M/s320/OgAAAIWA8SOraecvxhEqE86RMNUXS1eAKKcZR-X0R4R9rtTD_dMCwuy1HOtTU0Bg5X3qjoJYH8r2ppocayOeDW9iOAEAm1T1UNNvMVOcyrcQqEfssQjlwsmaaK9K.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><em>O Futuro, ela inventa. O Passado também.<br />E ainda pode brincar de colorir tudo,<br />enquanto os adultos se arrependem e tentam reescrever histórias...</em> </div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-84760491842953124322010-03-01T17:22:00.000-08:002010-03-03T13:17:50.302-08:00Entre o Céu e o Chão<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqeH-yViaEU8cppAy26J7DH5W0WNE7aejRTAlTZ0-XwA9OPWahBVUWHAiHcWg1Ae_72zfV6BOBIZzM4zvmlHWsF6ElT-RUEpA-qT1nUCpGxmUfJYX_jU3Hy8WTo1dDt3aW1UiDSWWe5qk/s1600-h/OgAAAGMwYQQconwexu4wkSE3sZttEL5bfMM6vmAJ4SJLqZ0xBinpZAD8czBWM64BSUlMDKp2ptYW5CfeWXijx09n4tcAm1T1UAlz09-vRsFnhu3ykyiERMiS4Feq.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443841405835330402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 226px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqeH-yViaEU8cppAy26J7DH5W0WNE7aejRTAlTZ0-XwA9OPWahBVUWHAiHcWg1Ae_72zfV6BOBIZzM4zvmlHWsF6ElT-RUEpA-qT1nUCpGxmUfJYX_jU3Hy8WTo1dDt3aW1UiDSWWe5qk/s320/OgAAAGMwYQQconwexu4wkSE3sZttEL5bfMM6vmAJ4SJLqZ0xBinpZAD8czBWM64BSUlMDKp2ptYW5CfeWXijx09n4tcAm1T1UAlz09-vRsFnhu3ykyiERMiS4Feq.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><em>Danças sobre o tablado, como se seus pés conhececem todas as pedras do caminho...</em></div><div align="center"><em>Com cada movimento tão calculado, </em></div><div align="center"><em>danças com os passos inscritos a fogo.</em></div><div align="center"><em>Danças como se não houvesse terra, só ar!</em></div><div align="center"><em>Como se não houvessem duras realidades,</em></div><div align="center"><em>como se não houvessem imperfeições...</em></div><div align="center"><em>Dance minha Bailarina, continue a ensinar-me a ver a vida,</em></div><div align="center"><em>da mesma forma em que você a enxerga!</em></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><div align="center"></div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-71817106606069885252010-02-18T07:14:00.001-08:002010-02-18T07:31:20.906-08:00Lembranças Amarelas<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Am7juRf0K_iyhY9swb4Db5c25FQzIBSUJ4ku41-IH1rR90F8cB90hZVetlRCilP9KnrrOmUXLo2HwwMbwRqHqxQkS2cmO49Rvh2AjpKpv9r2XHgDEWJXTb2OxstxIYUB1GKT1KXKmZc/s1600-h/DSC03068.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Am7juRf0K_iyhY9swb4Db5c25FQzIBSUJ4ku41-IH1rR90F8cB90hZVetlRCilP9KnrrOmUXLo2HwwMbwRqHqxQkS2cmO49Rvh2AjpKpv9r2XHgDEWJXTb2OxstxIYUB1GKT1KXKmZc/s320/DSC03068.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439602645180999538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Se não fosse Van Gogh, o que seria do amarelo?</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Mario Quintana)</span><br /></div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-4035608330765708572010-02-12T13:18:00.000-08:002010-02-18T07:13:59.045-08:00Brincar ?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNQ10Aq9Z0VfLyT-g_cMgiR5f8zv9Ho2l9CBKGNJbKqhgYBQQKmvov3KUxhyphenhyphenpXdzy67cZ3355jpDH6blK3Pc-L_cR8AlsyLWv2uBG7I7li6NpArLsYPDQNwJ_uHZx8eKv-ujwO7Yhzkg/s1600-h/C%C3%B3pia+de+_MG_3176.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNQ10Aq9Z0VfLyT-g_cMgiR5f8zv9Ho2l9CBKGNJbKqhgYBQQKmvov3KUxhyphenhyphenpXdzy67cZ3355jpDH6blK3Pc-L_cR8AlsyLWv2uBG7I7li6NpArLsYPDQNwJ_uHZx8eKv-ujwO7Yhzkg/s320/C%C3%B3pia+de+_MG_3176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437469691299845346" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;">Vendo-se tudo com os olhos da sabedoria,<br /></div><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;">não há mais possibilidade de brincar.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">E se não se brincar, que resta então.</span><br /></div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-33885541531293162502010-02-11T18:39:00.000-08:002010-02-12T13:02:49.553-08:00Sentimentos Bêbados<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF07zEGEnd4N6BnUbLN-iG9XToD6YuhUllqZUKJ2nfstiSz4pco5xosvxYDOJv_uhdB-_zjfA9OaGlL-qOj_MAcjoPkaMjjyHvBBljC2YGlmCEff51yu4zXP-L8G6-ngthD0Zzipe5p0U/s1600-h/OgAAAACjyq-eEiSTVCMfggGmzBHbTgzACVGBr3vPFvOcmJ0lREh6wUDFw4_QlE8AgrkaCUwsOZ-EkuL2M3sDZndrlxYAm1T1UFpAkYI32WsPKI7c7uVhab6OSQ2C.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF07zEGEnd4N6BnUbLN-iG9XToD6YuhUllqZUKJ2nfstiSz4pco5xosvxYDOJv_uhdB-_zjfA9OaGlL-qOj_MAcjoPkaMjjyHvBBljC2YGlmCEff51yu4zXP-L8G6-ngthD0Zzipe5p0U/s320/OgAAAACjyq-eEiSTVCMfggGmzBHbTgzACVGBr3vPFvOcmJ0lREh6wUDFw4_QlE8AgrkaCUwsOZ-EkuL2M3sDZndrlxYAm1T1UFpAkYI32WsPKI7c7uVhab6OSQ2C.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437181095099591762" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Sorvo em taça de cristal, as palavras dos poetas.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Justifico assim os meus pensamentos trôpegos e os meus sentimentos bêbados.</span><br /></div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-27929371160336331782010-02-10T12:26:00.000-08:002010-02-10T12:31:00.053-08:00Momento<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLoO7abWdoupDMEVZPJp7eL1Jixjs_pUuChDuHxk9XrC9qgFCg_8HLuTwPnY-d1Z0nD6Ds6O3l4acdMY0-v413x-0cpwQUK1rov3cfDpxap6IepEQM3k-FrJxhOwRCiu97n_JhA5VIuU/s1600-h/os+passaros1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLoO7abWdoupDMEVZPJp7eL1Jixjs_pUuChDuHxk9XrC9qgFCg_8HLuTwPnY-d1Z0nD6Ds6O3l4acdMY0-v413x-0cpwQUK1rov3cfDpxap6IepEQM3k-FrJxhOwRCiu97n_JhA5VIuU/s320/os+passaros1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436714701064274850" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">E nesse momento, eu juro que estávamos infinito.</span><br /></div>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5504716000189244318.post-82587354037456561152010-02-10T04:56:00.000-08:002010-02-10T12:31:30.686-08:00Que Seja Doce ....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQGUpv__7VDGZARndZWw27asIuMhRy42W87Z3q8K-FpkNNQxjb_d3nv8LHDTiqT_gjOI8tuZnFt6WRYzMohGYROHKiFFmiZSzPnJtu8iQbz418I7HdH9xZcdNWaJhF2VEEq8gSh_5emCg/s1600-h/Que+seja+doce.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQGUpv__7VDGZARndZWw27asIuMhRy42W87Z3q8K-FpkNNQxjb_d3nv8LHDTiqT_gjOI8tuZnFt6WRYzMohGYROHKiFFmiZSzPnJtu8iQbz418I7HdH9xZcdNWaJhF2VEEq8gSh_5emCg/s320/Que+seja+doce.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436597950192074210" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Então que seja Doce.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Repito todas as manhãs, ao abrir as janelas para deixar entrar o sol</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> ou o cinza dos dias, bem assim: Que Seja Doce.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Quando há sol, e esse sol bate na minha cara amassada do sono ou da insônia, contemplando as partículas de poeira soltas no ar, feito um pequeno universo, repito sete vezes para dar sorte: que seja doce que seja doce que seja doce e assim por diante.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Mas, se alguém me perguntasse o que deverá ser doce, talvez não saiba responder.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tudo é tão vago como se não fosse nada."</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Caio Fernando Abreu</span>Leohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00389506003718708919noreply@blogger.com0